


And Snape Sleeps On

by suitesamba



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M, Past Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-25
Updated: 2012-12-25
Packaged: 2017-11-22 09:05:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,980
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/608124
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/suitesamba/pseuds/suitesamba
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Severus is ready for the world to end. He just didn’t think he’d get to share the end of the world with someone, least of all someone who wanted to go out with a bang.<br/><b>A/N:</b> I threw this together rather quickly and it shows. It’s unbeta’d. Thanks to the Severus Sighs mod (Roozetter) who gave me the pairing and the prompt. That prompt was Severus/George, by the lake at Hogwarts, and George must cry. Written for the Severus_Sighs end of the world #fuckathon, in celebration of the fact that the world did not, in fact, end on 12/21/12.</p>
            </blockquote>





	And Snape Sleeps On

**Author's Note:**

> This is a work of fiction. The characters and their worlds belong to their original writers and no copyright infringement or offense is intended. No money was made from this story.

On this night, this magical night to end all nights, Severus abandons the Headmaster’s tower, abandons the castle, and walks to the spot he has prepared on the black lake’s western shore.

The children are home for the holiday, all of them gone this year, parents undoubtedly keeping them close in case the predicted end is indeed the end. 

The Mayans were wizards, after all, and if they predicted the world would end on December 21, 2012, there was at least a reasonable chance that it will.

Frankly, Severus rather hopes it will. 

He is tired. Exhausted, really. Every day is the same. Meals in the Great Hall. Ministry paperwork. Wayward students. Censuring Peeves. Always, always looking for new faculty members. There is no one for him, no one who will have him. His brewing has been compromised for fourteen years now, since he woke up at St. Mungo’s a month after the Final Battle with permanent nerve damage to his extremities. He can feel his feet and hands now, but only just. He holds his wand with his left hand, the one that trembles less. He lifts his tea cup with both hands, filling it only half full. He uses an enchanted quill to write. His neck is scarred, his voice still hoarse.

Still, the last fourteen years, trying and cold as they were, were certainly better than the fourteen before those.

But it is enough. If he does not wake up to a new day, he will sleep in peace.

He has chosen this site carefully. It is sheltered by trees from the wind yet looks out over the lake toward the eastern horizon. The ground is flat where he erects the tent, but rises in a sight swell to the west and north. The tent boasts a single room without a bed or other amenities. There are furs on the floor, and he sits on them now, staring east, the wide tent flaps tied open. He had spelled the top of the tent transparent and the stars shine brightly, though clouds begin to obscure some of them as they gather. The tent is warm, the cold highland air not breaching the barrier spell over the doorway.

A noise outside. A shadowed figure steps into view.

“I saw the light.”

The voice reaches him. It is low, matter of fact. A wand illuminates and the stranger holds it up before his face.

It is a Weasley. 

“Why are you here?” Severus sounds tired, resigned. He will not be talked inside tonight, no matter the cheery envoy sent from that Wizarding Wonderland of Weasleys.

The man shrugs. “Couldn’t take the vigil at the Burrow. Everyone else is there. I begged off.” He shrugs again. “Everyone knows I need to be here with Fred.” The man’s hands are in his pockets and he digs them in deeper.

George then. His twin was buried here, in the small plot beside Dumbledore’s tomb, the plot reserved for Order members. 

He is looking at Severus with curiosity. Severus looks back at him. George Weasley is in his mid thirties now. His oldest child has just started at Hogwarts. The boy’s name is Fred.

“Do you believe this is the end, then?” asks Severus.

George shrugged. “No. But I can hope.”

His voice sounds as hollow and empty as Severus’ heart.

“Why are you out here, Snape?”

“I wasn’t invited to the Burrow,” quips Severus. “And I want a clear view when the sky starts to fall.”

George nods. But he doesn’t move.

Severus holds up a bottle of fire whiskey. “Well, you’d better come in, then.”

George enters without hesitation. He takes the bottle from Severus and takes a swig, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. Without invitation, he sits on the furs beside Severus, stretching out his legs toward the door. He is wearing leather boots and he reaches down and pulls them off and tosses them outside the tent.

They pass the bottle back and forth. When there is more inside of them than is left in the bottle, George, lying flat on the ground now, watching the occasional meteorite in the clear skies above them, turns his head toward Severus.

“This had better be the end, Snape. I can’t live anymore without him. Sometimes…sometimes I can almost feel him. There beside me.” He pats the ground to his left. His voice is choked. “I find myself talking to him. I’m so tired of everyone’s pity, for fuck’s sake.”

“There are those I miss as well,” Severus says. “Though I cannot claim to have had a twin, or even a brother.”

“We’ll see them. They’ll be waiting for us.” George reaches for the bottle and raises himself up on his elbows to take another long swig. “Fred wouldn’t miss the chance to see you and me crossing the veil together.”

Severus watches a meteor’s tail gleam and disappear. Are there more meteors tonight than any other? 

“Are you lonely, Snape?”

Severus turns his head slowly and meets George Weasley’s eyes.

“You were going to lie here tonight on these furs naked, weren’t you? Lie here with your hand on your cock, pulling yourself off while the world ends. I’m right, aren’t I?”

“I…”

“You were going to bend your knees, maybe charm your wand to work your arse. Drink yourself to near oblivion while you were doing it too. Since there isn’t going to be a tomorrow you don’t give a fuck about a hangover, or being caught. Just pleasure. Pleasure until…”

“I could fuck you. I haven’t had a tight arse to fuck in years.” He slurrs his words slightly, sounding more suggestive than menacing.

Weasley gives a bark of laughter.

“What makes you think my arse is tight, Snape? Or that I’d want you to stick that big cock in it?”

“Wishful thinking, perhaps. And what makes you think my cock is big?”

“Wishful thinking,” responds Weasley lightly. 

Both heads turn again. Regard each other with a kind of tired interest.

“You’re married,” says Snape.

“That matters to you?” returns George. “When the world is about to end?” He cants his hips upward a bit and runs his hands over his thighs.

“You have a family. A successful business. Friends. Why are you here?”

“Because only half of me is alive. Because only half of me sleeps with my wife, or plays Quidditch with my kids. Because only half of me stands behind that counter and half of me hugs my mum. And the other half is here. Out there beside Remus. I’ve half a mind to have you fuck me on his grave, Snape. Half of me died that night, and the other half is rather looking forward to not waking up tomorrow.”

Snape unbuckles his trousers and lifts his hips.

“Get these things off of me,” he says. “And I don’t plan to fuck only half of you.”

Weasley’s arse is as tight as he’s imagined it to be. They don’t waste time with unnecessary kissing, or senseless foreplay. Severus maneuvers him so that he is on his knees, arse high, forehead on the furs. He touches his wand to the top of his crease then begins to work the lubricant in, almost clinically. His first finger in in to the second knuckle and he is working a second in beside it when a burst of light illuminates the sky above them, hiding the stars.

“Hurry!” George, all pale skin and freckles and taut muscles and hardening cock, thrusts back on Snape’s hand. His bollocks, heavy and full, swing below him as thrusts, pushes, groans. Snape moans, watching his fingers disappear into the arse on display before him, picking up the pace. He glances up. It is only the moon, out from behind a cloud, bright and full on this night of nights. George is rocking back, pushing against his hand greedily. Snape reaches for his cock as he adds a third finger, pushing into George all his frustration, all his helplessness, all the nights spent alone in that great four poster bed in the tower room above the Headmaster’s office. Now George is pushing back then pulling forward, drawing the fingers deeper, tugging against the hand holding his cock.

And Snape is hard. Hard with want, and need. It has been a long time since he has fucked a man. It has been a long time since he has felt anything other than ennui. 

This…this is _something_.

The alien feeling centers in his groin and moves outward. It is a yearning. A building pressure. A desire for release. To climb to a precipice…and jump. To swim to the center of the lake…and sink.

Le petite mort. 

Le _gran_ mort.

There will be no awakening from this little death. The sky will fall as they fall, as the stars burst behind their eyes it will burst in the heavens above them.

There will be silence. Stillness. Nothing. No pounding of hearts, no panting. No groans. No sighs.

He pulls out his fingers even as Weasley grinds against him, following him back. He’s sloppy. His fingers, always numb, fumble more than ever. He positions himself and pushes in roughly, cock sliding against slickened walls, into an arse tighter than he could have dreamed. 

Beneath him, Weasley keens.

He pistons in, pulls back, pushes in again while Weasley moans. He fumbles for the generous cock, squeezes its girth, imagines, just for a moment, what it would feel like filling him. 

It makes him harder still. Wanting more. He slides in again, into the arse so willingly offered. Balls deep, he presses further, rotates his hips as he squeezes his own arse cheeks together.

There is a rumble from outside. A flash of something in the sky. Then darkness, as the light of the moon disappears.

A cloud? A clap of thunder? Or the end?

He finds his rhythm and his cock is hungry and his bollocks are full and tight. Fucking has never felt this good. Or has he only forgotten? 

Weasley is a demanding bottom. He nearly screams as Severus grazes his prostate at last. He cries out as Severus pulls at his cock, circling the head, sliding his hand up and around.

Severus is going to explode. His strokes become faster, shorter. Weasley bats his hand away from his cock and takes it himself. He comes a heartbeat later, his arse contracting, and Severus follows him, pumping into him until he is empty. Til there is nothing in his bollocks, nothing in his cock, nothing in his head, nothing in his heart.

He is empty, and ready. Drained and spent and it is perfect. A perfect way to go. Nothing left to give, to do, to think, to feel.

He closes his eyes as he rolls off Weasley and sinks into the furs.

He feels decadent. 

He sees the flash of light behind his eyelids. The corners of his lips turn up into the hint of a smile.

He sleeps.

~***~

In the cold dull light of winter morning, George kneels before a slab of granite, head resting against the cold stone.

There is snow on the ground, and his knees are wet, his fingertips numb.

He is crying. Tears freeze on his face before they roll off his cheeks.

“I’m here. I’m here,” he says. “I’m still here.”

He says it again, and again, and it is not clear whether he is happy to be alive, or distressed that the world did not end as predicted. 

A woman finds him there. She rests her hands on his shoulders, gathers him up, leads him away. They walk hand in hand into the new day that should not have come.

And in the tent beside the lake, naked, wrapped in furs, spent and empty, utterly, absolutely done with life, Snape sleeps on.


End file.
